


A Touch of Silk

by Dancains



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: (Just a little bit), Class Issues, Domestic, Everybody Lives, Gift Giving, M/M, Mentions of Chronic Pain/Illness, Post-expedition, Recovery, The most important character is Tom and Ed's quaint seaside cottage and you can't tell me otherwise, Themes of male femininity, Very soft M rating really but I thought I'd play it safe, a drabble that got out of hand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:34:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24535492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancains/pseuds/Dancains
Summary: “Might I ask, is this for a relation, Sir? Or is it--”“It’s a gift,” Edward replied clumsily. A gift for...someone very special.”The shop girl beamed. “What a wonderful choice of a gift, Commander.”Edward idly wondered if she had read any Austen--perhaps she now imagined herself as some sisterly ally to a real-life Anne Elliot, set to enjoy this secret token of affection, with himself cast as Captain Wentworth in this charade.
Relationships: Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 4
Kudos: 56





	A Touch of Silk

**Author's Note:**

> I swear I'm going to finish my other WIPs soon [sighing emoji] anyway pls enjoy this little idea that started very silly and then got slightly angsty and then got silly again

It was a fancy that came upon Edward on an otherwise mundane afternoon in late May.

Despite a pearl-colored sky and a thin yet expansive quilt of clouds, a muggy sort of heat had come over the quaint seaside village he and Tom now called home. An open window on the South-facing side of the room, as much a beckoning prayer for an ocean breeze as anything could be, was no match for the pervasive humidity now making Edward’s shirt adhere unpleasantly to his back and shoulders.

Discomforting as it was, it recalled to Edward the flavor of a ripe Mediterranean fig, the thought itself so vivid he could _feel_ the sweet-acidic pulp flooding his mouth.

He had, at first, abstained from the exotic fruit--mostly due to a horrific story a fellow lieutenant on the _Britannia_ had told him, of finding a wasp burrowed deep in a fig’s flesh--but after intently watching the locals during shore leave, had found himself greatly rewarded for his giving into curiously. It seemed a past life now.

Languidly, he watched Tom where he was sat upon one of the sitting room’s patterned chairs, a matching set to the one Edward currently occupied, working in near silence to mend a tear in one of Edward’s waistcoats.

 _Remarkable,_ Edward thought, _how this man’s beauty can transform as readily as the change of seasons, without ever the loss of its luster or wholeness._

In these past months, as Tom’s health had greatly improved, it seemed that both a literal and metaphysical glow had come over his very being. His once pale complexion now gleamed like honeyed bronze, a sure result of their long meandering walks along the shore, arm in arm as gentlemen were often wont to do (Edward, to his own dismay, had only burned and then freckled heavily from the sun’s same attention); as they made their home together here and settled into a routine of companionship and domesticity, something else seemed to glow about Thomas, some contentment within, Edward hoped. His own breast swelled with such a feeling, nearly aching in its tender sweetness. 

Sighing, Tom set aside the waistcoat and pincushion, evidently surrendering to a long-held battle with the damp heat. Idly, he reached for a thick leaflet of newsprint Edward had left on the sideboard, not setting it across his lap to read, but using it as a makeshift fan. His eyelids drooped, no doubt enjoying the efforts of his self-made breeze. 

Watching him with undisguised interest and little else to occupy his thoughts, Edward wondered what the tableau in front of him so fiercely reminded him of--Tom’s bad leg (which now only rarely gave him significant pains) was crossed over its good counterpart, whilst he fanned what little cool air there was to be found in the direction of his face and bared neck, a place that would be thoroughly obscured by a neckcloth on any typical, milder day.

“What are you looking at, Sir, with that foolish grin on your face? Were we to have company, they might remake that the Commander has gone quite mad in the idleness of his retirement.”

Whatever foolish grin marked his face must have assuredly grown greater. It had now been some time since Tom had called him ‘Sir’ in earnest, an address now reserved for playful jests and barbs such as these.

“You,” Edward answered honestly, not clever enough for a returning quip. Not in this heat at least, and not with Tom’s poised figure being painted into something divine under the touch of the late afternoon’s last long rays, a redness to them which betrayed the intentions of the approaching sunset.

Tom stood and stretched. “Though I fail to see the appeal, perhaps you could observe me in some other, cooler locale.”

Edward quietly scoffed at Tom’s self-depreciation. Still, he readily agreed. “Where do you suggest?”

“The bath, I think. I’ll set it up in the bedroom.”

“A bath? Now?”

“My dear man,”--oh, how Edward thrilled at these articulated intimacies, regardless of how often they were now exchanged--“the bathwater doesn’t need to be hot.”

“Now, Mister Jopson, what would I do without your indispensable insight?”

Tom laughed. “Why don’t you join me? So I might enjoy an opportunity to watch you, instead.”

“You know there’s not a thing I could deny you.”

“Don’t let me keep you tethered here, Ned. I can tell when you’re restless, you know.”

Edward looked up from his book, ill-concealed concern no doubt written across his features. He hoped Tom hadn’t noticed that he’d been on the same page of his novel, an adventure story by Alexandre Dumas, for an inordinately long amount of time.

It was one of those rare days where the residual pain of Tom’s illness kept him confined to bed, and kept Edward hovering at his perimeter, feeling quite useless with only his company to give. The fact that Tom refused to take anything for the pain, albeit for reasons Edward deeply understood, did nothing to further console him.

“Tethered?” Edward set down his book, all pretense lost. “What an absurd notion.”

Tom angles him a look, as menacing as one could manage from upon a veritable mountain of lace and brocade pillows. “If you went to tend to the garden, I’d still be here when you got back. Or if you were to go out for a ride by the shore. I think it’d do both you and that horse some good.”

Edward knew he was right, that there was little to be helped in his fussing and fretting, but he felt he was betraying his companion all the same.

Is there anything I can get you at least, from town perhaps.

Tom shook his head, his eyes closed again. “Just a cool glass of water, before you leave. With a little lemon in it?”

“Of course.”

Tom has spent so much of his life caring for others, waiting upon them tirelessly, that Edward knew it made him uncomfortable to be the object of such efforts. Still, he would do anything to help that Tom would allow.

As Edward readied and mounted their speckled mare, Primrose, he endeavored to ride into town and visit the druggist, in hopes of finding some relatively mild sedative Tom might, hopefully, concede in taking.

Getting out into the open air, at least, did make Edward feel just a little less burdened by his thoughts. For a good half of an hour as he rode West along the coast, it was only him, the repetitive, pounding tremor of Prim’s hooves, and the heavy taste of salted sea air upon his lips.

A beautiful, moderately-sized hotel, with an exquisite view of the nearby shore, stood as the focal point of the town, a place where a select group of wealthy city folk chose to weather the coldest months of the year, in this small, hidden grove of splendor. Now was not the season, though, and the establishment seemed all but empty. The rest of the town’s shops and facilities, as befitting Tom and Edward’s tastes, were far more humble and unassuming in appearance. 

That fact may have been why a particular shop caught Edward’s eye, one that he was unsure of having been occupied the last time he had been around these parts. It was a dress shop for fine ladies, if the items and garments displayed in the window were to be trusted. As he urged Prim to slow her gentle trot even further, something caught his eye distinctly, triggering a flash of a memory from the night before.

The sole shop girl at the counter, a tawny-haired and moon-faced little thing, seemed to be as surprised as himself at his entry into the establishment. She gave the impression of only barely knowing what to do if a lady came into the shop, let alone an imposing bearded gentleman. It was a look he had seen on many a young midshipman’s face over the years--his own included.

“G-good afternoon, Sir. Or- Commander, if I am not mistaken?”

Edward resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow, and instead nodded politely. “Good afternoon, Miss.” Then, after a pause, “You’re not mistaken, though, I suspect that some local peoples have sketched me out as a much more mysterious and intriguing figure than in actuality. I’ll apologize in advance for any disappointment.” He gave her a soft smile, hoping that she was young enough, and he old enough, that it might only communicate a brotherly goodwill, and no other ill intention.

She let out a small, tittering laugh, nervous but genuine. “I’m sure no apologies will be necessary, Commander Little. Was there something you had been looking for in particular?”

Just a brief glance around him, at the dizzying array of dresses and gloves and hats and lacey underthings, was a vivid reminder of how far out of his usual element he now stood. 

“Yes. Yes, the erm- in the window…” Remembering his purpose, the words now seemed lost on his tongue.

Thankfully, the shop girl recognized the awkward fanning motion he had made with his hand. “Ah! The silk folding fans--back here, we have a more diverse display of them…” Edward followed her dutifully as she made her way to the back wall of the shop. “And there are some just like the two in the front display, of course. All real embroidered Chinese silk. _Chinoiserie_ , I have been told, is quite the favored style of many fine ladies these days.”

There were only ten or so, displayed on a polished wooden table, which he still found a rather imposing number.

“Might I ask, is this for a relation, Sir? Or is it--”

“It’s a gift,” Edward replied clumsily. A gift for...someone very special.”

The shop girl beamed. “What a wonderful choice of a gift, Commander.”

Edward idly wondered if she had read any Austen--perhaps she now imagined herself as some sisterly ally to a real-life Anne Elliot, set to enjoy this secret token of affection, with himself cast as Captain Wentworth in this charade.

“Are there any colors in particular that catch your eye? You can pick them up, if you like, feel the quality of the silk.”

Gingerly, he picked up a coal-black coloured folding fan, the delicate lace across the top having caught his attention. He couldn’t help but think of the glossy black sheen of Tom’s hair under candlelight, how his supple lips might look half-hidden behind the lace trim.

Keenly aware of the girl’s curious eyes upon him, he made a show of folding and unfolding it, delicately rubbing the fabric under his thumb. It certainly was an item of quality. All at once he was reminded of his father’s funeral, his older sister using such a fan to conceal her silent tears.

“Perhaps black might not express the...desired intentions of such a gift, Sir.”

He blinked. “Of course, yes. I was just thinking the same.” Hurriedly he selected another from the table. Studying the intricate woven pattern of flowers and birds he asked, “What would you call this colour, precisely?”

“Cream, I should think.”

It reminded Edward of yellowing sailcloth, or the sun-bleached sand along the beach below their home, which Tom so dearly loved to walk upon with his feet bare.

“I don’t exactly...have an eye for these things,” said Edward, “I suppose what I mean to ask is, if the recipient of this gift were to have...very dark hair, almost black, with light-coloured, green eyes. And a slightly olive complexion…? Would this be, do you think, a flattering hue?”

The young lady now appeared to have reached a mild state of near-religious ecstasy, being privy to such clandestine romantic affections, and from a rugged, retired Arctic explorer, no less. 

“Immensely flattering, I should think, Commander. Immensely flattering. And I think any lady would be delighted by the beautifully embellished, lacquered box it comes in, as well.”

“It comes with a box?”

He was surprised to find Tom in their cottage’s kitchen when he returned.

“I’m feeling somewhat improved,” Tom murmured in explanation, as Ed deposited his purchases, a thin paper-wrapped parcel along with a bottle from the druggist’s, on the side table by the door, “But don’t expect much in the way of supper. I’m only warming what we have left over from last night. Perhaps you could pick a few apples from the tree before we sit down.”

The spindly, crooked apple tree had been a facet of the property long before their arrival, as had its small, slightly-bitter fruit. For reasons Edward couldn’t begin to understand, Tom thought they tasted delicious.

He hummed in agreement but instead sidled up behind his lover, where he stood at the stove, wrapping his arms around Tom’s middle and burying his face against the side of Tom’s neck. Tom leaned back into the embrace, sighing contentedly.

“What’s that you’ve brought home, love?” Tom purred, “Something to poison me with, no doubt.”

Edward exhaled sharply against Tom’s warm skin, in what they both knew to be a laugh.

“No, I don’t think we’ve quite driven each other mad, yet. Living like this. I did get you something from the apothecary that I hope you might try the next time you find yourself enduring such discomforts as this morning...but perhaps we could talk about that another time. I did get you something else.”

Tom half turned to look back at him, evidently curious. “Let me just set this out on the table then.”

With a small feast of savory vegetable stew, buttered bread, and thinly cut slices of apple between them, Edward handed over the paper-wrapped box.

“Now what on earth is this?” Tom hummed, making quick and tidy work of the paper. With obvious confusion he surveyed the far eastern style detailing on the front of the box, a scene with two figures sitting in a garden. When he opened the hinged box, he went still.

Edward felt his nerves go tight. Perhaps he had unintentionally offended, with the effeminate nature of such a gift. “Well?” He gently prompted. “Why don’t you have a look at it.”

Tom’s expression was inscrutable, as he took the fan from the box and unfurled it, in one sharp snapping motion, fluttering it a few times to produce a waft of cool air.

Edward thought he looked to be the very image of refined beauty and elegance.

As quickly as he had picked it up, Tom set the fan down. “You shouldn’t have bought this for me.”

“Why not?”

Tom bit his lip, his gaze not quite meeting Edward’s own. “For one, it’s...far too fine. I can’t imagine what you spent on it.”

“A quite reasonable price, I assure you. The box came at no extra cost, as well. That’s far beside the point, though-- _nothing_ is too fine for you, as far as I’m concerned.”

This seemed to be the wrong response, for Tom looked even more agitated. “So you can pretend at me being something good and fine, instead of poor East London dreck. A bit of rough for you, all secreted away here.”

“Tom?” the word barely escaped from the dry clutches of Edward’s throat. “How on earth could you think that? If I’ve done anything at all to put those sorts of thoughts into your head, then—“ 

His protestations fell upon deaf ears, as Tom suddenly stood and made his way to their shared bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

It stung, but Edward knew better than to chase after Tom in the incredibly rare instance he was in such a mood. Bitterly, he finished his own supper and put away what was left. By the time he finished, the sun had submerged itself below the horizon, leaving them with an inky indigo sky as well as a surprising amount of residual heat. 

After a great deal of pacing to and fro across the sitting room, thinking about what exactly he might say, he came into the bedroom to undress for bed. Tom was turned on his side, away from the door. Edward suspected he wasn’t sleeping.

“Can I get into bed, or would you have me sleep on the settee? I won’t force my presence where it’s not wanted.”

Wordlessly, Tom rolled over and patted the empty space in the bed. Edward stripped out of everything but his cotton drawers before sliding in next to him. Still cautious, he pressed a kiss to Tom’s bare shoulder. He thought he felt Tom shiver.

“I feel like the most unimaginable brute,” Tom whispered.

Edward kissed him again. “Nothing could be farther from the truth, Love.”

“It is true though. I was unkind.” He sat up on one elbow, looking at Edward properly. With the open window behind him, he seemed haloed by moonlight. “It’s no excuse, but, when I’m feeling ill...I feel so horrible about myself. I feel useless, and then upset about you needing to take care of me. Keeping you here when you could be anywhere in the world if you wanted.”

“I know you would do the same for me, a hundred times over. Why shouldn’t it be reversed? I’ll have you know, this is the only place in the world I want to be—I wanted to make a home with you here. I won’t pretend I don’t still feel the stings of our past, but every day I wake up beside you I feel as if so need to pinch myself to make sure it isn’t all the most beautiful dream. And if I were any other place on this earth, well, I only would be if you were by my side. can’t you see that?”

Tom roller over completely, laying his head upon Edward’s chest. He linked their fingers together, gently squeezing them.

“I worried that you found it insulting—the silk fan. I just know how the heat bothers you, and how you sometimes have a taste for pretty things, trinkets. If it’s not to your liking, I’m sure it could be retu—“

“No,” Tom breathed quickly, taking Edward for a surprise. “It’s beautiful,” he sighed, “just the thing I would have wanted but would never have let myself have.”

Edward held him tighter, as they both drifted off to dreamless sleep.

In the days that followed, the box with the folding fan found its permanent place on the dresser in their bedroom, amongst their small collection of toiletries. The weather had much improved, helped along by a strong Northward gale, temporarily rendering the fan unnecessary. It was once the muggy warmth returned, albeit to a lesser, more bearable degree, that he was reminded of his gift.

He was just coming back inside from a brief evening stroll about their property, to work off the stupor of his heavy supper, when he called out to Tom, “I think a family of birds are making a nest in your favorite apple tree! Finches, maybe...I didn’t want to get too close and spook them.”

Only an empty sitting room awaited him, the very place where Tom had been knitting not ten minutes ago.

“Tom?”

“I’m in here,” Tom called out for the bedroom, a strange, husky sort of quality to his voice.

Edward peered behind the door. The air was thick with the heady scent of the wild roses Tom had picked earlier that day from along the cliffside. The room was only lit by a few flickering taper candles on the dresser, and it took Edward a second to make out Tom’s body—completely bare, or nearly so—laid out stark and tan against the white sheets. The only garment it could be said he was “wearing” was the cream silk fan, held delicately just over where Adam might have been covered with a fig leaf in any biblical frontispiece. 

Clothed only in what nature had given him, he was made all the more handsome by the sliver of grey at his temple, the two teeth lost from his bout of lead-poisoning, and the thick, twice-healed white scar that ran the length of his left thigh.

Edward’s own limbs felt impossibly heavy with desire, his own clothes now a suffocating weight upon his skin. He stood in the open doorway, rooted to the spot. Something undoubtedly animal must have shown on his face, as the pounding of his blood in his ears rivaled the constant thrum of ocean waves that could be heard in the distance.

Tom eyed him demurely from the under the fringe of his hair, one bent arm resting languidly behind his head, putting the lean muscle of his bicep and the dark fur of his underarm on casual display.

“I never thanked you properly. For such a lovely gift.”

“You never need thank me for anything I—“

Tom lifted the fan, fluttering the silk in front of his neck and shoulders as cooly and casually as if he had owned and used such an accessory for years. His body now fully on display for Edward’s voyeuristic inspection, Tom gazed at Edward over the barrier of silk, a mischievous and toying smile no doubt hidden behind it.

Countless times as a young man, at balls and fêtes and the like, he had witnesses ladies enacting such rituals of fanning flirtation and found himself thoroughly confused and uninterested in the indirectness and pretension of it all. His sisters had repeatedly tried to explain it all to him (how holding it in one hand as opposed to the other meant this, and touching it to your cheek meant that, how fanning quickly or slowly or touching the rim of one's glass meant entirely different things altogether) in an attempt at helping him to secure a match, but their valiant efforts had been in vain. He had felt adrift in a sea of his own misunderstanding—only later he fully appreciated the true reasons for his continued indifference.

But Tom—his singular, sweet Tom—spoke a silent language all his own, a complex dialect of signs and signals which Edward would be more than content in studying for the rest of his days.


End file.
